


Latigo

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Terra Incognita [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol, Canonical Character Death, Drug metaphors, Drunk Sex, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's got all sorts of bad habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latigo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Jim's seen enough junkies to know what addiction looks like. He can recognize the afflicted in the throes of withdrawal, and the ecstatic in the drug's thrall. He can tell a dabbler from an experienced user. As a police officer, even if you don't work Narcotics, you see them. You see them all. The bored kids whose eyes go from heavy-lidded to wide-open once you threaten to call Mom and Dad. The hustlers who look too young and too good for you to believe they're into anything heavy. Until you learn that anybody who looks that young and that good has to be using regularly. It's like they say in all of those books of junkie mythology: heroin gives, before it begins to take back everything it's given and more. Jim knows that spectral beauty, and what comes next- how they go from delicate ghosts to rotting animated cadavers. Jim's seen those rarest of all creatures, the functional addicts, so sewn into their habits that they can no longer be extricated from the rhythms of the drug. If you do something enough, you become it. Jim's seen the full parade of addicts and addictions, and he's taken careful note of all of the sights.  
This is how he knows that he's not an addict. He's not like those people. Nothing holds him- not boredom; not self-loathing; not physical need. He can stop this anytime he wants to.  
He's stopping it right now. He's soon to be a married man. A married man, and a father, too. All of life's milestones and joys heaping themselves upon him in one bountiful drop. It's more than he could have imagined for himself. So much more.  
Harvey's taking him out for a drink, after work, to celebrate this abundance of excellent news. Though, Harvey would drink to celebrate going an entire day without having to re-tie his shoes.  
That's unkind.  
Jim's been feeling unkind. A kind of ache has dug itself into his bones. Day and night, strange pains wrack him. A tentative complaint to Lee earns him a soft hand against his forehead, a concerned murmur about flu season, and an admonition to take some vitamin C. The itch is altogether less normal, and not something he wants to discuss, anyway. It's not even properly an itch, which lodges in the skin, but an electrified tickle, deep down. Under his skin. It jerks and shakes him at odd moments, and he finds that he's unable to settle himself again. He has to get up, wander around the precinct. He finds himself drifting, as though a somnambulist, to the threshold of Lee's office. Though he never opens the door, he gets as far as placing his hand on the knob. There's the feeling, as in a dream, of needing badly to deliver a message. Though, with the frustration of the dream, the message becomes muddled, or completely blasted from memory, and never reaches its intended recipient. Jim just walks back to his desk, or, if it's an especially fitful moment, to the bathroom, where he hangs idly, as though waiting. It seems appropriate to splash cold water on his face, but this provides none of the expected relief. He remains hot, twitchy, sticky. But on the inside. Not a trace of any of this shows on his skin.

Galavan's death brought a relief that Jim couldn't have imagined. It was so profound that, at first, Jim didn't even feel it. In the action of shooting him, Jim felt nothing- an absence of feeling so thorough that it was like feeling, itself. He wasn't numb. He was clear. Like glass. Like ice. He could see through himself. To the other side.  
And what did he see?  
Oswald Cobblepot. Looking at him with eyes so pale, it was like they possessed no color, at all. Huge, immense eyes full of- what?  
Full of gratitude. Jim allowed himself to recognize the emotion. It is, he imagines, what he would have seen if Oswald and he had been face-to-face when Jim had pretended to shoot him at the waterside. Such gratitude that, perhaps, Jim's seeing what's left over from that first scene. In this bizarre inversion of their first meeting. Now, there actually is a dead man, and after a still and silent moment, so heavy it seems to hang on the air, Oswald sets about putting together his little tableau.  
Jim can't help but flinch. It's a brutal thing to do. Even to a dead man. Maybe especially to a dead man. Death is supposed to guarantee dignity: it's the state in which all are finally equal. Even someone like Galavan, who thought he was so exceptional.  
Oswald rises, panting with the effort, folding again as he attempts to wipe the dirt from his knees and losing his balance.  
“All right,” Jim finds himself muttering, like he did, a thousand times when he was in uniform, helping the intoxicated to their feet. “All right,” he used to say, to no one in particular, as he steered them into the backseat, or onto a curb, or into an ambulance.  
But Oswald's not drunk. His eyes are clear and alert, so painfully alert, when he looks up at Jim. “Thank you,” he says, his hands on Jim's arms, and Jim almost expects him to add that he's always depended on the kindness of strangers.  
Though, of course, they aren't strangers, at all.  
“You're welcome,” Jim answers automatically.  
“I mean,” Oswald continues, “thank you for this. Thank you for coming with me. I wanted to kill him, but I'm glad that it was you. I'm glad you did it.”  
How to answer, now? Confessing to pity for Galavan, to sparing him the agony of Oswald's wrath in favor of a quick, clean death, seems... in poor taste. Even more-so for being a lie. There was no pity, there. None for Galavan, anyway. “It had to be done,” Jim says, simply.  
“No,” Oswald shakes his head, and it occurs to Jim that they're holding each other, now, but he stills the thought, tries to make it fade, “You didn't have to do this for me,” some of the softness in Oswald's expression vanishes, replaced by that sharp, dangerous look that's so much less unsettling for its familiarity, “Why did you do this for me, Jim? Why did you come here?”  
“I thought...” he begins. But he doesn't know what he thought. That he would stop Oswald, arrest Galavan, maybe arrest both of them? That Galavan deserved a little mercy, in the end; better than a slow, clumsy, ugly death? No.  
“Yes?” Oswald says, eyebrows raised expectantly.  
“I wanted to see it.”  
“You wanted to see what?”  
“I wanted to make sure he was dead.”  
“And what better way than to do it yourself? Did you think I'd hesitate, that I'd flinch, at the last minute- because, Jim,” Oswald's bitter, bitter laugh, “I wasn't going to flinch.”  
“No,” he shakes his head, “No. You wouldn't have flinched.”  
“Then, why?”  
“Call it a favor, repaid.”  
Oswald smiles. “Yes. I like that.”  
This is the time to move. To shake off Oswald's embrace, give him a steadying pat, and get on with it. The business of living. But the ground is uneven, and even Jim is having a hard time standing upon it. It's easier to hold onto Oswald, as Oswald leans into him, to stay like this, two points of pressure supporting each other, becoming inextricable.

* * *

After work, Harvey takes him out for that celebratory drink. There's a lot to celebrate, so there are a lot of drinks.  
“I've got some twelve-year-old scotch,” Harvey says into his glass, “Back at my place. Better than this piss.”  
Jim highly doubts that, but he says, “Okay. Sure.”  
Then, at Harvey's apartment: “So, show me what twelve-year-old scotch tastes like,” then, when Harvey's making a big show of looking for it, “Where's Scottie?”  
“Where do you think she is?”  
“I don't know.”  
“Well, neither do I,” Harvey spits, then laughs, “Fucked if I can remember where I put that bottle.”  
“Yeah, okay,” Jim says, and smiles. It's only a cheap ruse if you fall for it. If you know what's coming, though, it's just kind of sad. “All right,” Jim says gently, placing his hands on Harvey's shoulders.  
“Yeah?”  
Another smile comes, involuntarily. “You have anything to drink that isn't old enough to do algebra?”  
“Yeah. I have some lesser alcoholic beverages.”  
“Get me one.”  
He clinks his glass against Harvey's, looks him in the eyes as he says Cheers, and downs his drink. He gives Harvey a chance to drink his, and then, he's on him.  
It feels good, for once, to not worry that he's going to break the other person. Harvey might be pushing fifty and he might be drunk, but he's solid. He's sturdy. He is, Jim's pleased to find, kind of rough.  
“You come here looking for punishment, or absolution?” Harvey asks him at one point, his voice a low burn against Jim's neck.  
“Which one do you think I deserve?”  
“If we got what we deserved,” Harvey says, “This'd be hell on earth.”  
But Harvey doesn't know. That it already is.  
Against his better judgment, Jim stays the night. Finds himself shaken from sleep in the middle of the night by Harvey's hand on his cock, his teeth at his shoulder. He's not awake enough to either object or offer any enthusiasm on his own, so he just lets it happen. It feels good, for once, to just let something happen. With someone strong, someone who knows what he wants. Who wants from Jim neither comfort nor salvation. Certainly not love. Just a body. God, it feels good to just be a body, for a while.  
The next morning finds Harvey with his head in the toilet bowl.  
“I won't take that as a comment on my performance,” Jim says, with an easiness sure to irritate. He feels just as shitty as Harvey, but he learned long ago how to effectively conceal pain, discomfort and illness.  
“I just can't drink like I did when I was forty,” Harvey mutters, rinsing his mouth. He spits. “What're you going to tell Lee?”  
“The truth.”  
“Do yourself a favor, and leave out the part where I had my finger up your ass.”  
“I'll tell her that we went out after work, had a little too much to drink, stayed out a little too late, and I didn't want to come home to her like that.”  
“Very wise.”  
“I have my moments.”

Addicts can change their addictions. What they can't change is the fact of being addicts. But Jim's not an addict, so he has nothing to worry about. He can put Harvey down anytime. Like tonight. Harvey asks if he wants to go out for a drink. Right there, in the middle of the precinct, where everyone can hear. Not that they know what meaning the words hold within them.  
“Not tonight,” Jim says, no feeling at all in his voice. Harvey shrugs.  
“I'm not feeling so hot,” he tells Lee.  
“You haven't been doing too well, lately, have you?” she asks, touches his forehead, his cheek.  
“No,” he says, with a sheepish look that she doesn't seem to catch.  
“Do you want me to make you some soup?”  
“No. I think I'll just go back to my place tonight.” He doesn't need Harvey, and he doesn't need anyone else, either.  
“No- come home with me. I'll make you some soup, and some tea with honey. We can watch whatever you want on TV,” she adds, with a charmingly lopsided smile, “It's better than suffering alone.”  
“I don't want you to catch what I have,” he says, and looks down at her belly for effect.  
“Oh,” her smile evaporates, “you're probably right.”  
“Yeah.”  
“I'll call you later, though, to see how you're doing.”  
“I'm just going to go straight to bed.”  
“Okay,” a new smile, a nervous one, “Well, I'll see you tomorrow.”  
“Yeah.”  
He actually means it, though. The second he said it, he realized how exhausted he truly is. Maybe he really is sick. So, he goes home, gets ready for bed. He turns out the lights. He's actually falling asleep, when he hears a sound, out in the hallway.  
Now, he's awake. He gets his gun, moves into the living room. Under the door, he sees a flutter of shadow. He unlocks the door, and yanks it open.  
“You can't do this,” he says, once he's pulled Oswald into the apartment, and locked the door again behind him.  
“I can't do what?” Oswald asks, with such waves of anxiety coming off of him that his teeth have to be sweating, “Visit an old friend at home?” Jim lets him go, and he straightens himself. Now, less nervous, more indignant: “I'm not interrupting anything, am I?”  
“I was sleeping.”  
“Oh. Rough day at the office?”  
“Just tired.”  
“You must be. You've been out with Detective Bullock nearly every night this week. That's in addition to seeing to your duties as a fiancé. I've often wondered where you find the energy. But I know what kind of stamina you have.”  
“What do you want?”  
“I miss you. I miss you, Jim.” In the dark, it's impossible to tell, but Jim's sure that all of the color has left Oswald's eyes.  
He lets Oswald put his hands on him before he shakes his head. “This can't go on.”  
Closer, now, gazing up at Jim with those huge, impossibly pale eyes. Like a body of water so clean that you can see the bottom. Nothing is concealed. “I assure you, it can. If you've been able to carry on with Bullock this long, surely, Leslie's not the suspicious type. And if she does come to suspect- you already have the perfect alibi: you were with him. It's a betrayal, and it's so sordid, but it's not incomprehensible. You're partners. You see the best and worst of each other. You've saved each others' lives. There's no shame in wanting more from a person like that. It's very easy to understand. Leslie would understand. Even if she wouldn't understand about the things that we've done together. What you and I have between us.”  
“There is nothing between us.”  
Oswald laughs, sadly. “That's where you're wrong, Jim. The sooner you let yourself believe it, the happier you'll be.”  
Thankfully, Oswald lets himself out, so Jim treats himself to the luxury of standing in the dark for a while, holding his gun, thinking about nothing and no one in particular.

Addiction makes you cry. It makes you weep. It makes you crawl on the floor and writhe in the muck. It reduces a person to a body. And not in the way that Jim likes, when he's with Harvey, drinking and fucking his way into insensibility, leaving his stupid thoughts and disgusting emotions at the door. Addiction reduces a person to a body, and that body to its needs. Not just the physical ones, unfortunately. It draws forth from the heart needs a person didn't even know he had. Didn't know he could have. Jim remembers all those times he found Barbara crying for no discernible reason, and he believed her when she told him that it was just that time of the month. Now, of course, he knows better. 'Need' and 'needle' are so close in sound. And in function. They both pierce you, hurt you; draw blood; make you tender. There was a wound, somewhere, to begin with. It's why you started doing the things you do. It only takes so long before comfort becomes torment, and you have to start going back sooner, to seek relief, and consuming more, when you do.  
No one looks for something to become dependent upon. But there'll come a time when you have to go looking for it. When it no longer comes to you. And then. You'll crawl. You'll weep.  
“Meet me,” Jim says, his mouth too close to the phone.  
“Your apartment?” Oswald asks.  
“No.”  
“Yes. I like it, there. It's so cozy.”  
“Fine. Now.”  
“No. I have things to do.”  
“How long will it take?”  
“Well, that, I can't say, Jim. I do business with a lot of creative types, and you know about artists and schedules.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“As much as I like you, Jim, I don't tolerate rudeness from anybody.”  
“Fine.”  
“What does that mean?”  
Jim swallows. “I understand.”  
“What do you understand?”  
“That you don't like being talked to that way.”  
“A gentleman would apologize.” Christ. He's actually getting ready to say the words when Oswald adds, “But I know that you're no gentleman. I'll try to get away soon. But I make no promises.”  
“All right.” Jim hangs up. There's nothing to do, now, but wait. And drink, once the waiting on its own gets to be too much. Alcohol's like a time machine. It can take you to the past, and it can fling you into the future. So that three hours passes like a breath, and Jim's taken by surprise when there's a knock at the door. It can't be him. Not this soon. It has to be Lee, appearing like a phantasm of guilt, to rightfully take away his enjoyment of this- this stupid thing he's doing with Oswald. Or it's Harvey, made aware by some extra sense that Jim is drunk and aching for physical contact. Or-  
“Jim, it's me. Open the door.”  
Everything's flickering, like an old film, before him. It's suddenly gotten dark. The door opens. Is it his hand on the door? He barely feels anything.  
Oswald brushes against him, though, walking into the apartment, and Jim certainly feels that.  
“I knew you'd come around,” Oswald says.  
“Shut up,” Jim says, and he wants it to come out mean, but he just sounds breathless. The effect is ruined further when he pulls Oswald up, holds him up, kisses him. Alcohol is a time machine. So that he's there, again, on the night he killed Galavan, standing by the water with Oswald. Holding him now like he did, then. Kissing him, as he did, that night. And Oswald had just sort of... melted into him. Melted, and vaporized, become a breath on the air, when Jim kept kissing him, hands on his warm body, so that he wouldn't have to think about the other, cold body. Think about what he and Oswald had done together.  
Oswald's warmer, still, now, in the velvet darkness of Jim's living room, letting out little wounded sounds as Jim slips his coat off of his shoulders, fumbles with his tie and his collar.  
“Do you want me right here?” Oswald asks, and for a second, Jim doesn't know where he is; wants to balk at the idea of having sex next to a corpse- but there is no corpse. Theo Galavan is at the bottom of the river. That's far away. This is home. This is safe.  
“Yeah,” Jim says, and sinks to his knees. To take what's coming to him. He probably is looking for a punishment.  
The only punishment he gets is his own body's pleasure. The rich shame of liking it so much; of wanting this, needing it. Beneath his hands, Oswald's skin is too soft. The motion of Oswald's hips is jittery, bruising. Jim lets him. Lets Oswald pull back abruptly, push in hard. Lets Oswald tug at his hair, spill out ridiculous accusations. Jim can't live without him. Jim tried to get away, but he couldn't. He couldn't get away from Oswald if he wanted to.  
“I own you,” Oswald gasps.  
If Jim disagreed, he could end this. He imagines it, tries on the action: pushing Oswald away, standing up, throwing Oswald out of his apartment. He stays where he is.  
He's holding Oswald steady, as orgasm shakes his body. Now, Oswald's soft, entreating.  
“Oh, Jim,” he whispers, as Jim's standing up. Pulls him into a kiss before Jim can decide whether he wants to spit or swallow, tastes himself on Jim's mouth, messy with abandon, staining them both. “Please don't leave me again. I couldn't take it.”  
“No.”  
“Please.”  
“I won't.”  
He's been appeased, so now, he's ready to do whatever Jim wants. That's all one has to do with Oswald. Take care of him, and he takes care of you. He's so yielding, so sweet, and Jim can't stop touching him. Can't stop kissing him. Has to have him.  
This isn't addiction. Jim could stop, anytime he wanted to. He did stop. He had a taste, developed a habit, and when it got to be too much, he let it go. The pain was extraordinary, but even the remembered agony of separation feels good, now. How can pain not feel good when it makes the relief that comes after that much sweeter?


End file.
